The short man moved quickly, glancing over his shoulders several times at the sound of doors closing and opening and footsteps. He was snipping off the beard growing on his face over a toilet bowl, orange jumpsuit marking his status as a prisoner. Once his beard was as down he shaved it off with a disposable razor that had once seen better days.

Once his face was clear, he moved to the zip lock bags stashed in the toilet, pulling out shoes and a uniform. He changed quickly before moving quickly out the door of the employees only bathroom. A buzz sounded, signaling the change of guards shift. With his longish black hair slicked back and uniform, the man moved smoothly through the halls, the guards paying him no attention other than nodding at him. A couple prisoners did a double take but one just smiled before turning back to what he was doing.

As the man moved, he swiped a card from one of the guards, sliding it through the correct reader to open the gate. One of the guards caught the door and the man tensed, but the guard only smiled him through.

Returning the smile he breezed through the parking lot, making his way over to a maintenance van, hotwiring it and pulling away from the prison, dropping the stolen card in the parking lot.

Looking through the dash, he pulled out three dollar bills and smiled. A short while later, he used the three dollars to buy a yellow wind breaker, which when he removed the uniform jacket made him look like any other airport shuttle employee. With that alias, he picked up a hundred dollar bill and a convertible black car.

w-w-w-w

Agent Coricopat Zimmerman of the FBI's white collar crimes unit stood inside a bank, on edge as a technician worked to open a particular box in the safe. He kept his eyes on a screen of the tumblers as the tech reported back, "Drop three. Drop two. Drop four."

The man reached for the handle just as Coricopat processed the numbers, "No, wait!" The man didn't hear him and the safe deposit box exploded, self destructing anything inside of it.

Coughing, agent Macavity Hollister looked up. "What the hell just happened?" he snapped, looking over his computer screen and trying to wipe the dust off it.

The tech came out of the safe looking a bit the worse for the wear. Coricopat waved a hand to clear some of the dust away from his face, trying to speak without coughing, "What happened is we just wasted ten thousand man hours to get this close to the Dutchman and the evidence just blew up!"

Bombalurina coughed, shaking her head as Macavity frowned. "How'd you know it was gonna do that?"

"Three two four." He answered, "Check your phones, what's it spell?"

"FBI," Mac sighed. "Damnit. He saw us coming."

"You think?" He shook his head and pulled a red fiber off of his jacket, "Anyone know what this is? Anyone? Nobody. Great...And how many of you went to Harvard?" He knew he shouldn't' be lashing out at the agents, but he felt his temper spike with a strong dose of irritation as most of those present raised their hands, "Don't raise your hands. Just don't. It was a rhetorical question."

Bombalurina frowned down at her phone, stepping outside of the room as Macavity threw his headphone down. Coricopat saw her go and arched a brow. Handing the fiber off to one of the agents to deal with he followed Bombalurina out, "Bomba? What's going on?"

She looked over at him, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. "Mistoffelees Caffrey just escaped," she said.

He blinked at her, "What?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Time to get back to the office."

"I'll tell Mac to take care of getting this packed up, and then I'll head to the detention facility."

She nodded. "I'll tell Hollister. You go."

Her boss offered her a flickering smile and headed to his car, only barely following traffic laws to the prison. He got out and strode inside, greeting the U.S. Marshall already there.

"I appreciate your help," the Marshall said, approaching him. "You were the case agent on Caffrey before, right? The only guy to ever catch him."

"That's me," Coricopat agreed. "You must be Thompson."

The man nodded, not holding out a hand to shake. "Yeah. Now we're dealing with an unusual situation. Why would he run with only three months left on a four year sentence?"

"That is the question. Until I see a couple things I can't say without guessing in the dark. I assume we have access to his cell?"

"Of course," the marshal said, leading the way.

"So, Caffrey came out of the E-block staff bathroom dressed as a guard." Coricopat frowned, "Where did he get the uniform?" Violence would have been noticed, and it wasn't the other's style anyhow.

"Uniform supply company off the internet," the head of the prison replied and Thompson sighed.

"Alright, better question," the FBI agent glanced at the prison warden, "Where'd he get a credit card?"

The warden looked shamefaced a moment. "My wife's American Express."

"We're tracking the number," Thompson added.

That earned a long blink and it took all of Coricopat's willpower not to rip the warden a new one, "He won't use it again." They had reached the cell and he stepped inside. There were paintings on the walls and books stacked up on the bed. One wall was covered in neat rows of tally marks. "How did he get the key card he needed for the gate?"

"Picked one off a guard," he said with a shrug.

Coricopat stared at him for a minute before moving over and sitting down on the bed, going through the books scattered there, a manual on truck maintenance, well that explained the getaway vehicle...

"He walked out the front door and hotwired a maintenance truck," the warden explained.

"We found it abandoned near the airport," Thompson added. "We beefed up security, in case he tries to escape that way."

"You won't catch him using roadblocks and wanted posters," Coricopat responded, picking up a collection of Oscar Wilde's works, opening it to the middle where a flyer marked the last page read. The flyer featured two people in bright yellow jackets and bore the words "Executive Services Airport Parking". "He's not taking a plane anywhere." He set the book aside and turned to a cracked mirror and the razor that had been used that morning.

"He shaved his beard just before he escaped," the warden added.

The FBI agent looked up with a frown, speaking as he rose, "Mistoffelees doesn't have a beard."

The marshal and warden looked at each other. "He didn't," the warden said. "We photograph each inmate as they walk out of their cell every morning. You wanna check them out?"

"Yeah, that'd be useful. Might find us a trigger day."

The warden nodded, leaning the way. They reached the security room and backed up the daily photographs of Mistoffelees until he emerged clean-shaven from his cell. "There." Coricopat pointed, "That's the day he stopped shaving. I want to know everything that happened that day. I assume you have the visitor logs?"

Nodding, the warden pulled out the visitor log, flipping to the day in question. "He had on visitor."

Coricopat leaned over to look, "Pouncival Moreau. Damn it."

"Who's she?" the marshal asked. "Sounds like you know her quite well."

"He," Coricopat answered, "is Mistoffelees Caffrey's significant other. Find me the security footage of that visit."

Thompson blinked at him as the warden ordered the footage to be brought. "There's not gonna be any audio on this," he warned.

"That's fine, I just want a read on the body language. My guess is our trigger's in that visit somewhere."

The warden nodded as the video started playing, He flipped through the log book. "That Moreau was like clockwork. Every week."

"Well, he wasn't thrilled about this visit," Coricopat murmured, watching the exchange on the monitors, trying to get a focus on Pouncival's lips, see if he could make out what he was saying.

"Can we get a lip reader in here?" Thompson asked.

"No need. I'll save you the trouble," the agent sighed. "'Adios, Misto. It's been real.'" He shook his head, gaze still focused on the screen, "He come back the next week?"

"Never again," the warden said, flipping through the book.

"That's it then. There's why Caffrey escaped with so little time left." He rose, "Let's find Pouncival."

w-w-w-w

Nightfall found police cars surrounding the black convertible that had been stolen that morning. Mistoffelees was sitting on a third floor apartment, turning a Bordeaux wine bottle in his hands. Other than him and the bottle the flat was empty.

Coricopat had insisted on going up alone. All but ordering everyone else present to stand down, he made his way up to the apartment, entering it. His gaze swept over the space, far emptier than he remembered it, "I see Pounce moved out." His voice turned softer when he saw the bottle, "He leave you a message in that?"

"The bottle is the message," the smaller man replied, not looking up. "Been a while."

"A few years, give or take," Coricopat agreed, coming around to the front of the pillar the other was leaning against. "I know your opinion of guns, but I have to ask, are you carrying?"

"No," Mistoffelees said, eyes flashing as he glanced up before looking back down. "You said it already, you know my opinion of guns."

"You know they asked me why you would pull such a boneheaded escape with just four months left to go." He looked around, shaking his head, "He moved fast, pulling his disappearing act. Trail ends here from the looks of things."

"Yeah, missed him by two days," Mistoffelees said, swallowing. "Only two days."

"Still, you managed to get out of a supermax in a month and a half. It was a close thing, and a damn impressive one."

"Didn't do me any good, did it?"

"You tried. It's a sight more than some would even think to do." His radio crackled and he picked it up, speaking into it, "Situation secure. Subject identified and unarmed."

Letting his head thud against the pillar, Mistoffelees sighed. "So, we're entirely surrounded then?"

Coricopat nodded slightly, "Marshalls called me in which means my agents as well." He glanced toward the bottle, "What was the message?"

"Good bye."

The agent sighed, shaking his head, "They're going to give you another four years for this, you know."

"I know," he said softly, carefully setting the bottle down and curling his knees up to chest.

Coricopat crouched down in front of the other man, "Is it worth it?"

Mistoffelees' eyes shut off and he rose. "That's the same suit you were wearing four years ago."

"Classics. You can't beat them, they never go out of style."

The short man rolled his eyes, looking it over and pausing. He reached out and plucked a small red fiber off his jacket. "Do you know what this is?"

"No," came the frank response. "And neither do any of the Harvard grads on my team. It's from the case I was supposed to be working before they yanked me to find you."

"Well, that's because Harvard grads aren't worth anything," Mistoffelees snorted and he paused as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He held the fiber in front of Coricopat's eyes. "I tell you what this is, what's it worth?"

"What do you mean?"

"If I tell you what this is, right now? Will you meet me in a week? In prison of course 'cause I don't think I'll be breaking out again like this."

"Meet you? For a fiber?" He considered for a long moment, finally nodding. The men could be heard at the hall outside the apartment.

"It's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill," Mistoffelees said quickly. "Technically it's still classified," he dropped the fiber back on his shoulder. "Don't forget."

Coricopat plucked the fiber off his shoulder again, "One week."

Mistoffelees offered him a strained smile as the guard burst in. He held his hands up, turning. Coricopat stepped back, letting the marshals take over. He made his way down the stairs behind the others, strolling over the meet Macavity and Bombalurina where they were waiting.

"That was easier than last time," Bomba remarked.

"He wasn't broken last time," came the murmured response. "Come on, I have a report to make about that fiber we found."

"But we know nothing about it," Bomba started, "And what do you mean broken?"

"We know what it is," her boss replied, getting into the car. "And I mean The man who he was in love with left him while he was in prison and he missed him by two days. He is now going back to prison for four more years for no actual reason."

"Alright, then how do we know what it is?" Macavity asked when Bomba didn't say anything.

"If it pans out as what I think it is I owe Mistoffelees a prison visit." His two agents looked at each other before trailing after him.

w-w-w-w

Coricopat entered the bureau almost a week later, meeting Bombalurina in the hall, "What's got the belt and suspender boys all riled up?"

"You," she said, handing him a file.

"Me?" He took the file, "What did I do now?"

"Your felon was right," she replied. "The stuff from the bank vault was the security fiber from the new Canadian hundred."

"Well, I'll be damned..."

"It's still classified, you know," she added. "You might have just caused an international incident."

"Well, this will be thrilling. I'd better set up to meet with Caffrey then."

"He deserves it," she said, giving him a long look.

"Deserves the meeting? Yes, that was the agreed price."

She considered him and nodded. "I'll call ahead to the prison then."

"Thanks. I'll be back soon."

w-w-w-w

Coricopat entered the room where he was going to meet Mistoffelees, looking up as the smaller man was brought in, "How'd you know?"

"It's what I do," Mistoffelees shrugged. "How'd the Canadian's like that?"

"They were very upset. Well, as upset as they get about anything." He sat down across from the other, "So I agreed to a meeting. Here I am."

"This guy you're chasing, the Dutchman," Mistoffelees said. "You call him that because he disappears like the ship right?"

"Something like that. How do you know anything about him?" Coricopat eyed Mistoffelees warily.

"You know my life," Mistoffelees shrugged. "I pay attention to yours."

"Fair enough. Why bring up the Dutchman?"

Mistoffelees wet his lips. "You got the cards I presume. I want to help you catch him."

"The cards were a nice touch." Coricopat shook his head, "And how are you supposed to do that? Become pen pals?"

Swallowing, as if preparing himself, Mistoffelees held out a file. "You can get me out of here. There's precedence. I can be released into your custody..."

The agent looked over the file, "Nice. This is very nice. But you're right, I do know you, and I know the second you're out, you'll take off after Pouncival."

"I'm not gonna run," Mistoffelees protested. "Besides, the conditions of this deal wouldn't allow me."

"And which condition is that?"

"GPS tracking anklet," Mistoffelees said, looking like each word hurt him.

Coricopat looked over the specs and shook his head, "The can be removed."

"Not these new ones," Mistoffelees protested.

"There's always a first time."

"There always is," Mistoffelees said, and he was looking more and more panicked the longer the conversation went. "Think about it. I know things none of your grads do, and I understand how the world works better than they could hope to. Where else would you find this information?"

Coricopat rose, still shaking his head, "I'm sorry. I just can't justify it."

For a moment the shorter man opened and closed his mouth, any suave charm he usually had deserting him. "I..."

The FBI agent looked like he genuinely regretted it, "It's just not something I can sell to my superiors." With those words he slipped out of the room, the metal door clanging behind him.

The prisoner rubbed his face with his hands, leaning back and looking at the file again.

w-w-w-w

That night found Mistoffelees sitting against the wall at the head of his bed. The room was stripped just about bare, only one book remaining and a pen. The guard walked by. "Lights out," he said.

"Midnight then?" the short man asked.

"Yeah, it's midnight," the guard said.

"Another minute?" Mistoffelees asked and the guard said the affirmative.

Mistoffelees nodded, standing. He moved over to the wall, picking up the pen and looking at his wall of tallies. Hand steady, he moved forward, adding another tally to the perfectly straight lines and stopping. It should have been the mark he never made-he should have been out that afternoon.

Suddenly his hand moved roughly across the marks, scribbling all over the wall and breaking the light bulb hanging near the wall. Hanging his head, he breathed for a moment, trying to control himself. Straightening, he ran a hand through his hair before turning to his bed, making a small, straight tally above the bed. For a long moment he just stared at it before letting his head thud against the wall.

w-w-w-w

Coricopat hesitated, still trying to decide whether he had time to step off the porch and retreat between the time he rang the bell and the time Macavity or Griddlebone answered the door. The answer was probably no, but he drew a deep breath and rang the doorbell regardless.

Almost instantly the door opened. "Cor," Mac said in some surprise. "What're you doing around here?"

"I...Grids called and invited me to dinner."

"Oh, right," Mac said, stepping back. "Come on in, come on in." He turned around. "Honey, can I have warning when my boss comes over for dinner?"

Grids came around the corner from the living room, "I've had it marked on the calendar, Mac."

"That means nothing and you know it," he said, scrunching up his face slightly. "Not that I ain't glad to see you," he added. "Take a seat, how're you doing then?"

Coricopat settled into a chair, shrugging slightly, "I had a meeting with Mistoffelees today."

Griddlebone started setting the table, listening in but not contributing yet.

"Is that a positive thing or a oh-god-where-are-the-drinks thing?"

"Maybe a bit of both," came the tired reply. "He wants to be remanded into my custody."

Mac blinked and went to fetch the wine bottle. "He wants... to work with the FBI? To get out of prison? That he should have been out of today?"

"That's about the sum of it. He's got good points, but I can't justify it."

"How is he doing?" Grids asked, setting a casserole on the trivet at the center of the table.

Coricopat shook his head, "Not well. At all."

Macavity moved around the table, wrapping an arm around his wife's waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"You were working with me on the team that caught him, weren't you, Mac?"

"Yeah, course I was," Macavity said, taking a drink of wine with his free hand.

Grids tilted her head back to rest it against Mac's shoulder slightly as Coricopat considered his own glass of wine. "Do you remember the life in him? That...vivacity? It's...I think I saw it shrivel up and die this afternoon."

"It's been four years, there's no promise it died today," Mac replied, pulling Griddlebone just a little closer. "Why, are you feeling guilty for catching him again? Not like he was actually trying to run or anything."

"No, of course not. He all but turned himself in. It's just...I don't know. He was bordering on desperate. He'd done all the research. Hell, he offered the GPS anklet as a way to keep track of him. I just...I don't know if it's an angle he's playing or if he genuinely wants out of there so desperately he'll work with us."

Mac considered, glancing down at his wife. "So why'd he break out then only to go back like that?" he asked. "If you think he has an angle about getting back into prison only to get out of it again."

Grids glanced up at her husband, "Why did he break out in the first place?"

"His boyfriend was leaving. Rather abruptly, from what I can tell," Coricopat answered.

"And it earned him...?"

"Four more years."

"And you think he's playing an angle," Mac snorted. "You can't believe he'd risk everything for love, do you? Cor, don't you remember when we caught him the first time?"

"Of course I remember that, Mac. And that's the thing. I'm worried that's the angle he's playing," Coricopat shook his head.

Grids glanced between them, "The angle of going back to prison for the person he loves? Am I missing something? It doesn't sound much like an angle."

"Cor," Mac shook his head. "How can he be playing an angle on this? His lover left him and he just got an extra four years. You said yourself he looked broken and desperate didn't you?"

"The same way he looked in the apartment when he realized that. What's to keep him from saying 'to hell with it', shorting or cutting the anklet and taking off to find Pouncival?"

Glancing down at Griddlebone, Macavity shrugged. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Didn't he send you cards every year?"

Coricopat pinched the bridge of his nose, "Yeah, every year on my birthday."

Grids shook her head, "Well, isn't it worth the risk? You've caught him before, you could do it again, especially with the warning you'd have with the anklet."

"You said it yourself, he's a lively sort of guy," Mac added, finishing off his glass of wine. "You really want to be in a position to help someone and not do it? Come on, let's eat."

"Not sure I'm especially-"

Griddlebone frowned, "Don't finish that sentence. You are going to eat something."

"You can for dinner," Mac backed her up and laughed. "Besides, you're skin and bones again."

Coricopat rolled his eyes, "Fine, I'll eat something. Thank you both for having me over."

Macavity laughed, pulling a chair out. "Anytime, within reasonable limits and with warning,"

Grids laughed, shortening the warning time to: "Just call ahead."

If anyone's checking our profile, yeah, we really have too many stories going at once. But this one really came out of nowhere and jumped the queue really abruptly. As such, we really hope you enjoy it! This story reverses some roles we have, and it's pretty exciting over all.

If you've enjoyed it, do drop us a line! Reviews mean a lot, especially when we're getting a story off the ground. Thank you so much for your time!